Angered by the onset of a fingernail disease, the old man descended a spiral staircase down into the chamber where the hogs were kept. His movements were punctuated by quick, high pitched squeals from his anus, and his dried hands bled as they scraped against the jagged metal edges of the handrail. Several of the hogs were in the death throes of the vomit parade, and the television blared loudly in the corner, held tenuously by a rusty bracket and spackle. It is time for a new doughnut club schedule, but so far no one seems willing to take any initiative.